Consequences of Pining
by Ariel Riddle
Summary: 'Granger makes him want to do things he knows he shouldn't. She makes him want things he knows he can't have. He thinks of finally letting go, as if he were actually free to make such a choice.' In which Hermione's boyfriend is becoming distant, her friends won't stop hovering, and Pansy is definitely up to something. Dramione Duet 2018.


**Hello all! Just stopping by to leave some angsty dramione goodness on this fine Sunday. It's been a while since I've wrote the two, and I miss them!**

 **I wrote this piece for Dramione Duet 2018. My exchange partner, the lovely Kaarina-Riddle, wanted Death Eater, Angst, & Voldy-wins among other things. A lot of our kinks aligned and she left a lot of room for interpretation so needless to say I had a blast writing this.**

 **I'd like to thank the brilliant Maloreiy for alpha/beta'ing this piece and helping me cut the story down to the 8k limit. I'd also like to thank Ningloreth for hosting the comp and making this pretty banner!**

 **Thanks so much and I hope you enjoy!**

 **Disclaimer:** **Harry Potter belongs to JK Rowling and Warner Bros. This fic is written entirely for fun, not for profit, and no copyright infringement is intended.**

* * *

 **~oOo*oOo~**

The castle slumbers and Draco tries to keep his hastily built walls from crumbling in the face of his Head of House.

"Care to explain how this happened?"

Snape's tone is deceptively pleasant, but it still causes trepidation to prickle across Draco's skin.  
He molds his face into an expression of practiced innocence and meets his godfather's stare unflinchingly. He has to work to prevent any hint of emotion from escaping his vice-like hold.

Snape bristles. "Ah." He paces slowly, beady black eyes blessedly focused elsewhere. "Slytherin through and through."

Draco thinks he detects affection—even _pride_ —in his tone.

Despite the madness of the situation, Draco allows himself a brief moment to revel in his godfather's begrudging appreciation towards him. He doesn't allow a flicker of his true thoughts or feelings to register on his face. Snape is too sharp—too exceptional a Legilimens—not to examine any lapse in Draco's facade.

"This…" Snape pauses mid-step and whirls to face him. "...complicates things."

Draco can discern nothing in his godfather's impassive expression. The wizard's ability to keep _it all_ in check—every raw emotion—is uncanny. Draco vows he will possess that same ability… eventually.

A lump forms in his throat, but Draco doesn't blink as he prepares to assure his mentor that this… _issue_ , will not get in the way of their plans.

"I'm focused on the mission, I assure you," Draco tells him, silver eyes clashing with ones as dark as the Mark scorched over his forearm. "I'll report my progress before the month is up."

Snape's piercing gaze slithers over Draco, and it feels like beetles crawling up his skin.

"It won't do to become distracted by… _boyhood fancies_. See that you don't shirk your responsibilities."

Draco suppresses a shiver and meets his mentor's eyes solemnly. "I won't."

 **~oOo*oOo~**

Hermione's step is light and her mood is bright.

It's been a while since she's had cause to simply enjoy herself and be happy. For so long, it's been one life-threatening predicament after another. She has hardly been able to recover from figuring out one problem before shifting her focus to the next.

It's certainly no way to live.

Hermione adjusts the strap of her bag, eyes trained ahead and excitement building in her chest.

All of that was _before._

Now things are different. She may have had purpose in her life then, but now she has something to look forward to for herself… or someone, rather.

Now she has Draco.

A small smile pulls at the corner of her lips as she seeks him out. She's in the dungeons now, making her way to Potions—her first Slytherin class of the week.

It had been difficult to watch Draco from across the Great Hall that morning. She'd wanted to make her way over to him and sit by his side, but knew it would be inappropriate. Still, she hadn't liked the way Parkinson's eyes had slid over Hermione's boyfriend in an almost possessive gesture.

Hermione's grip on her books tightens.

 _Her boyfriend._

The reminder is comforting.

She can't quite recall when she stopped seeing Draco as her childhood nemesis and when exactly that had transitioned into _love interest,_ but she certainly can't summon those old feelings of hatred now. She supposes it's selfish to allow herself this bit of happiness, especially with the underlying issues regarding Harry that she's dealing with, but she simply can't imagine denying her feelings.

And dismissing them is out of the question.

When she comes upon Draco and his friends, she hesitantly calls to him, noticing that he tenses up for a second before he turns to meet her gaze. He acknowledges her with a nod.

His friends pause too, and they all turn to study Hermione and Draco as they walk up to meet each other.

She studiously ignores the stares, having eyes only for him. Without pausing, she puts her arms around him in a tight embrace.

When he stiffens momentarily, Hermione guesses it's due to their audience.

There seems to always be someone around to watch them, much to her irritation.

Coincidentally, Draco brings up their _other babysitters_ as soon as he pulls away. "Where's Weasley and Potter?" There's a certain edge to his voice that contrasts spectacularly with the smooth and relaxed expression on his face.

"Who cares?" Something about him makes her reckless. "If you ask me, they've been hovering a bit too much," she tells him with a smile.

His eyes widen fractionally but then he is unreadable once again.

"I appreciate their _big brother sentiment,_ " she's quick to assure him, "but it's been ages since we've been alone." She ducks her head and grabs hold of his house tie, fingering it lightly in a deliberately seductive gesture.

She steps closer to him, reveling in his nearness, and she can hardly keep her eyes from fluttering shut as the smell of his cologne drifts over her.

His hands fall lightly to her waist and his eyes are stormy.

"How about it, Draco?" Dropping all pretense of a demure girlfriend, she looks up boldly at him. Her heart clenches and her stomach flutters, but she plunges on. "Don't you want to be alone?"

His grip around her waist tightens and he misses a breath, eyes darkening.

She can't keep from pressing her eyes closed just to savor the feel and smell of him. When she opens them again, he wets his lips.

"That's…" he rasps out, and she thinks she senses the same need for her that she feels for him. But then something catches his attention over her shoulder, and he stops to clear his throat.  
When his eyes open, they are no longer glassy. "Potter. Weasley."

Hermione silently curses her rotten luck, unwilling to let go of him.

"You're late," he informs them tersely.

"Yes, I can see that."

She turns her head to see Ron looking meaningfully at Draco's hands around her waist. Draco drops them.

Hermione frowns. "What—"

"Come on, love," Draco interrupts and drapes his arm around her shoulder. "We don't want to be late for class."

The endearment makes her stomach flutter. It's not the same level of intimacy they'd just indulged in a moment ago, but she'll take it.

Even so, Hermione only just manages to keep from frowning in disappointment. She can't help thinking that something's out of place. Why is Draco acting oddly?

Whatever the reason, she can hardly suss it out now.

She still has the gift of his proximity and that leaves room for focus on little else. Watchful friends of hers—and his—be damned. She will take this over eyeing him from across the Great Hall, but that doesn't mean she isn't looking forward to when she can next find him alone.

 **~oOo*oOo~**

After class, and when it's just Harry, Ron, and herself walking back to Gryffindor Tower, she lashes out at them.

"I don't know what your problem is, but you're worse than an old woman with your meddling—both of you!"

To their credit, they both look positively frightened, like deer caught in the headlights.

"Uh… meddling?" Ron exchanges a look with Harry before reluctantly meeting Hermione's gaze. "What do you mean?"

"What _I mean_ , is you've got to give me and Draco space." She gestures wildly with her hands. "Do you see me forcing my presence between you and Lavender? Or"—she turns to Harry— "between you and Ginny? No! The both of you have to learn to respect boundaries."

"That's different," Harry makes the mistake of telling her.

"Oh?" She whirls on him, a challenging gleam in her eye. "How so?"

Harry averts his eyes guiltily. "Uh… er, Ron?"

Ron sighs. "Because it's _Malfoy,_ 'Mione."

The air between them chills. "What is _that_ supposed to mean?"

Luckily for them both, Ginny chooses that moment to catch up with them. "What's going on here?"

"Hermione's just a bit sensitive," Ron informs his sister.

Hermione's voice grows shrill. "Sensitive, am I?"

Ginny places a hand on her brother's arm and steps between them, shooting him and Harry a look. "Just leave well enough alone."

" _Thank you_." Hermione graces Ginny with a grateful smile, but she's still angry. She'll defend what's hers. It hurts that after all the times she's stood up for them that now she has to stand up _to_ them.

"Only a few more days," Ginny says so lowly, Hermione almost doesn't hear.

"Thank the Founders," Ron grumbles.

Hermione frowns. "What?"

"Uh..." Now Ginny almost appears nearly as guilty as Ron and Harry. "Nothing."

Hermione can't help but roll her eyes. Not only is Draco acting oddly, but her friends seem to be, too.

It's suspicious, at the very least.

 **~oOo*oOo~**

She thinks she's finally got him alone by the lake, when of course their friends chose that moment to converge on them.

To her puzzlement, Draco looks a mixture of annoyed and resigned before he schools his features.

It's not just Ron and Harry, along with a dressed-to-the-nines Parkinson, but Ginny, Lavender and Zabini, too. Hermione can hardly swallow back her irritation enough to greet them.

"Well, I suppose it's good you're all here," she relents, and gestures to her housemates. "Slytherin is having a party and you're all invited."

Silence.

Hermione looks around to see everyone has stiffened where they sit. Even Draco.

"What?" Hermione snaps impatiently. "Don't tell me this is about ridiculous house rivalries. We all go to Hufflepuff's parties often enough."

"It's not that," Harry starts, "it's just that—"

"Yes, Potter," Parkinson joins in, the first to recover. "What's the matter—don't want to sully yourself with the snakes?"

Harry's face goes red. "That's not it at all," he fumes, disentangling himself from a distracted Ginny. "I'd actually _love to go_. It's been too long since I've seen the dungeons." His grin is decidedly dark.

Pansy's eyes narrow at the implication of his words. "You _haven't dared_ see them. You don't even know where it is, let alone the password."

"Draco let us in, actually," Ron is happy to inform her.

Blaise slants his glance over to meet Draco's eyes. "Interesting."

"Inadvertently." Draco looks disturbingly unapologetic.

"You know about that?" Harry asks, turning to Draco with an astonished expression.

"Why, yes, Potter. Gra—Hermione told me all about it."

Hermione grabs on tighter to the hand holding hers. "You said you weren't offended—that you found it funny!"

His eyes drag down slowly to where they're connected, his hand resting on her jean-clad thigh and his other hand closed around hers. "I do."

Hermione sits back, relieved, but then starts when she finds Lavender gazing at her and Draco curiously, sick fascination evident in her eyes. Even Blaise tears his gaze from Ginny to watch them as if he's watching an interesting play.

Hermione can't help but shift uncomfortably under their scrutiny.

"Wanna watch where your hand is resting, mate?" There is no mistaking the threat in Ron's voice as he pierces Draco with his stare.

Draco hauls his hand away from her leg and Hermione feels like she might explode.

"That's it, then?" Hermione challenges. "You're just going to listen to him? When have you ever listened to _him_?" She can't keep the hurt from her voice.

"I…" Draco falters.

He never falters.

"I care enough about you to _not_ want to make your friends uncomfortable because I know it hurts you." His voice is strangely hollow and it's the most he's said in forever, but she's mollified by his declaration of _caring._ He doesn't often speak of his feelings.

Hermione crosses her arms. "Hmph."

Lavender's face is showing something like keen interest. Parkinson just looks curious. Hermione doesn't know why they care—it's her and Draco's business.

As the hour wears on, the tension doesn't lessen. Harry and Pansy don't stop bickering, and Draco grows more distant. On top of all that, their friends _don't stop_ watching.

"Bugger," she mutters under her breath.

Hardly the afternoon she was hoping for.

 **~oOo*oOo~**

She overhears a conversation she instinctively knows she's not meant to hear.

"It's your fault, you know."

Parkinson's unwelcome voice wafts through the air.

"You're the one who was pining like a lovesick puppy," she accuses. "What did you think would happen?"

"I wasn't _pining._ "

Hermione's heart stutters as she hears the object of her affections.

She hears robes rustling, and she imagines Parkinson crossing her arms over her chest.

"Just don't forget about your responsibilities," Parkinson tells him, and Hermione frowns as she ponders what such a statement means.

"How can I ever?" Draco's voice is mocking and self-deprecating. "With you and everyone else constantly reminding me."

Parkinson lets out an indelicate snort. "You're complaining to the wrong person."

They stop talking for a moment, and Hermione itches to peek around and see what they're doing. She imagines they are having a stare-off and she wonders who's winning.

"And now what?" Parkinson continues. "We're supposed to _just allow_ a bunch of obnoxious Gryffindors to our party, is that it? Your _girlfriend's_ invited _them all._ "

Draco scoffs. "Stop pretending you aren't secretly rejoicing about having the _Boy Wonder_ in our lair. Talk about pining."

Hermione frowns again, not liking _at all_ the way in which Draco referred to Harry. Liking less the implication that Parkinson wants Harry there.

"Whatever, Draco." Then Parkinson is arguing some more but her voice is fading.

Hermione doesn't want to risk following and getting caught eavesdropping.

What does it mean? Her suspicion that something is wrong seems all the more likely, but for the life of her, she can't surmise what it could be.

Has Draco been threatened?

Anger bursts inside her chest at the next thought that flickers through her brain: Have her _very own friends_ threatened him?

The notion of Harry and Ron doing something like that to someone she clearly cares for has her temper flaring.

An even darker option presents itself—does Draco have something… _to hide?_ Is that why he's pulled away from her?

Hermione thinks about Harry's ridiculous accusation earlier in the year about Draco being a Death Eater. Even now, though, it doesn't add up. Why would a Death Eater choose to be with her, a Muggle-born? And it doesn't explain her friends' strange behavior and comments, though if they held such a suspicion, it would explain why they never leave the two of them alone for a single second.

She wants to confront _them all_. The righteous indignation she feels agrees eagerly with that course of action. She simply needs to flat out ask them—and Draco too.

But how can she when he's been so distant lately?

 **~oOo*oOo~**

After battling herself for more than a day, she finally decides to confront Draco.

She catches him by surprise when he's heading to the changing room.

Merlin, does he ever look surprised!

He recovers swiftly, of course.

"I thought you were supposed to be with Weaslette today," he tells her, almost angrily.

"Yes, and it was quite difficult to lose her," she scoffs, before frowning. "But how do you know that?"

"Must have heard her mention it, I suppose."

She almost pushes further, but she's distracted by the bead of sweat dripping down his neck and under his Quidditch uniform.

She can't help but lick her lips, suddenly assaulted with the rather vivid fantasy of stripping him of his uniform and begging him to take her right there in the changing room.

Her desire spikes.

She briefly registers his look of alarm.

"Are you alright?"

"Huh?" She feels groggy and shakes her head as if to physically clear her thoughts. "I mean yes—fine, actually."

He doesn't appear too certain, and to be fair, neither is she.

"What I wanted to do," _before being struck with the decidedly better notion of shagging you senseless_ , "is ask what's going on with you? This…"—she makes a wide gesture with her hands—" _distance_ between us… you don't usually act this way around me."

His lips twist sardonically. "Oh, I don't _usually_ , do I?"

She shakes her head.

"I suppose I have been acting… differently."

"See?" She arches a brow. "And why is that, I wonder?" But before she can give him a chance to answer, her mouth is already launching into her next concern. "It's been damn near impossible to get a moment alone with you… barring recent incidences."

"Of you accosting me on my way back from practice, you mean?"

"Well, yes"—she averts her eyes and her cheeks redden—"that."

When she turns back to face him, his eyes are dark, bottomless tunnels, sucking her in.

She isn't capable of looking away. And she's _so_ confused she feels the insane urge to cry.

"Do you know what you do to me?" he asks, stepping closer.

Suddenly she feels an abrupt shift—a predatory role reversal. She stares, shocked.

"When you… blush like that?"

"No?" she ventures, and doesn't know why it comes out like a question. She fights to regain some semblance of control over _her_ confrontation. "But I do know that we haven't been alone since…"

Wait.

How long has it been?

And why is it that she can't remember definitively?

The awareness that she can't remember, makes her feel frightened. Her normally sharp mind refuses to come up with a solution.

"Yes," he tells her. He's oblivious to her confusion and plunges on. "Your friends do like to hover."

"As do yours," she retorts, before she remembers her theory. "Wait, has anyone threatened you?" Her Gryffindor ire is piqued. "Has someone told you that you can't be with me? From your house or. . . from _mine_?"

The idea that he could be a Death Eater springs up again but she can't bear to think on it. What would she do if he was, anyway? What would she do if such a preposterous thing were a reality?

 _Anything_ , her subconscious supplies.

Instinctively, she knows it's true and the revelation throws her.

" _Granger_ "—his voice is strained—"just let it go."

"No," she refuses, jutting out her chin in defiance.

"Hermione," he tries again, closing the gap between them. He reaches her, and even though his body is tense and his muscles are flexed, he grabs her by the shoulders lightly like she's a fragile doll.

His presence hits her like a freight train.

"Let it go," he repeats.

This time he's towering over her and she thinks she's swaying towards him. There's a moment there, a moment that seems… _definable_.

She wonders what would happen if she answers this call—answers the _pull_ —and submits to this urge to seam herself to him until she can't tell where one of them starts and the other begins.

But there is a challenge in his eyes, something she hasn't seen before.

"You don't understand. The time… it isn't right."

Subconsciously, she steps closer. She has to look up—so far up—just to meet his gaze, just to study the sharp curve of his jaw. She wants to lick it.

What did he say? Something about the time—it wasn't right or something. But Hermione thinks that's ridiculous.

"I—" Her voice catches, and she thinks she might break if she utters the truth, but she plunges on. "I want to be with you," she pleads, "just you."

His fingers tighten and his breathing hastens.

She's briefly distracted by the Adam's apple that bobs in his throat when he swallows.

" _You don't_ ," he tells her. "You may not realize it right now, but you don't."

Then she's spiraling… fracturing… shattering… and fleeing away from the sharp sting of rejection.

For that's what he's done—he's dismissed her.

For once, Hermione is too puzzled and too confused and too _afraid_ to push for answers.

 **~oOo*oOo~**

She can feel the eyes burning a hole through her head.

"What are you looking at, Parkinson?" She doesn't do the Slytherin girl the favor of turning to address her properly.

Out of the corner of her eyes, she sees Draco at the Potions cabinet gathering supplies for Slughorn's lesson. Ron is there too, and he fixes Draco with a sour look.

Hermione's mood plummets. She hates that her boyfriend and her friends don't get along. She hates it even more that she seems to be having her own problems with his friends.

"Hard to focus with that bush you call hair polluting the air and blocking the blackboard."

The scratch of Hermione's quill freezes mid-sentence upon hearing Parkinson's comment. She's reminded of how much she loathes the witch.

This time, she does turn. " _My boyfriend_ doesn't seem to mind. In fact, one could say he's rather fond of it." Hermione's lips turn up in a menacing smirk. She knows that's a stretch but she reasons Draco isn't close enough to hear.

Parkinson scoffs. "Right." She spears Hermione with a faux look of sympathy, her voice laced with mockery. "You poor dear. Do you actually believe you'll be able to hold Draco's interest for long? Do us all a favor and bugger off before your impure blood pollutes our air any more."

Hermione doesn't know if it's the insecurity she feels thanks to Draco's odd behavior lately, or her own lack of confidence, but she bristles and answers back quite recklessly. "Sounds like someone _is jealous_." Her voice chills the air. "You may hate it, but you can't come between me and Draco—no one can."

Hermione hates the look Parkinson gives her then— the look that practically screams she knows a secret Hermione doesn't.

Doubts plague her, spurred on by their most recent meeting and the rejection she'd felt.

Parkinson laughs and Hermione hates how rich her voice sounds—perfectly perfect like everything else about the haughty Slytherin Princess. "You?" Her eyebrows raise in disbelief. "You with that tangle of hair and your bitten fingernails and your baggy robes— why, Granger— do you even have a figure under there?"

Before Hermione can respond, Parkinson is leaning forward, a conspiratorial look flashing over her eyes.

"I'll let you in on a little secret. Draco is used to… a _certain caliber_ of women. He's had witches ushered on him since before you were aware of the opposite sex. You couldn't possibly fathom what it's like to be in his world. You'd never get it. There is nothing lasting between you and Draco." Her eyes scan Hermione in the most unsettling of ways. "Sooner or later, he'll grow bored of you."

Hermione's mouth opens, searching desperately for an angry retort, but she finds herself disturbingly speechless. To her horror, tears threaten at her eyes and she makes every effort to rein them in. The blunt words ring true, and she shifts uncomfortably under Parkinson's assessment.

Hermione knows Draco has had other witches. There's no possible way she can compare to them, and she doesn't even _try_ to.

She's no raving beauty. She knows her skin isn't perfectly free of blemishes, as evident by the smattering of freckles that grace her nose and cheeks. She doesn't wear an ounce of make up to correct any of her shortcomings, or perform any spells or use any potions to tame her hair. Her face does have symmetry on its side, at least, but she would need to make far more of an effort if she hopes to keep someone like Draco interested.

The thought of Draco leaving her causes agony to pierce her heart.

She simply mustn't allow it to happen! She'd be miserable. She'd lose _a part_ of herself, and however would she pick up the remaining pieces? He was already acting indifferent so it's quite possible the Slytherin witch may be right in her cruel appraisal.

She stares off to the side, her eyes in a daze. Part of her knows Parkinson is relishing the discomfort she caused, and Hermione really should hold back from displaying her emotions, but she can't seem to follow her own advice.

Draco returns and starts to place the ingredients on their desk methodically. For once, Hermione isn't completely attuned to his every movement, so lost is she in her own feelings.

When he's through, he glances between Hermione and then Parkinson, awareness dawning on his face.

"You and Pansy have a row?"

Hermione clamps her mouth shut and looks away, cursing her own insecurity.

Parkinson just smiles innocently and twists her shoulders in a careless shrug.

Hermione doesn't wait to see what he'll say next, more affected by Parkinson's words than she cares to admit.

"I don't feel well," she explains, as she hastily grabs her things and dashes from the classroom.

Ever the pragmatic thinker, a plan begins to form. Hermione sets out towards Divination so she can meet Lavender after her class.

Miraculously, Slughorn doesn't stop her uncharacteristic exit.

If she had stayed, she would have seen Draco's eyes go dark and the smile fade from Parkinson's face.

 **~oOo*oOo~**

Draco glares into the hearth, eyes trained on the flames that lick and pop inside its cage.

He's suddenly reminded of Granger—though he supposes it's _Hermione_ , now. Temperamental as the fire—but caged and only just barely kept restrained.

His Mark burns under his sleeve and he recollects his task.

The task he's been given.

The task he's been neglecting.

Despite what he's told everyone who has bothered to ask, he's far too distracted . He fingers the rim of his crystal goblet, but still his eyes are glued to the entrancing flames.

"You'd better keep it together."

Blaise is sitting right beside him, and Draco's surprised to realize he's almost forgotten him.

"Believe me," Draco's tone is disparaging, "I have it under control."

Unwillingly, and likely only thanks to the Firewhisky he's imbibed, he allows himself to think of _her_ again, despite his present company. He recalls the way she looks at him—with wonder and something akin to amazement. It's better than his old fantasies have ever conjured.

He thinks of how she speaks with her hands when trying to convey a point or when her temper rises. How affected he gets when her cheeks stain crimson. The light dusting of freckles on her nose...and how he feels when he's close enough to see them.

"You're not going to shag her, are you?"

Draco freezes and slants his eyes over to Blaise. "Of course not," he snaps, before tipping back the rest of his drink and downing it in one go.

He feels like Avada'ing himself but brushes aside that melodramatic thought in favor of leaving the dungeons altogether and getting some space from his suffocating housemates.

As he bursts out of the common room and roams the halls, he congratulates himself on his good idea, until that familiar scent of freesia and lavender assaults his nostrils. Then, he curses his bad luck.

Perhaps he is a glutton for punishment. Maybe he likes to be tortured. His subconscious mind knows she's doing her rounds, even if his alcohol-clouded mind had forgotten.

He's a sadist. Maybe he wants Potter or Weasley to kill him. Maybe that's the only way out of this tangle he finds himself in.

"Draco?"

Then she's encroaching on his space, and he has to lean away lest he fall upon her and not let her go.

She inflicts more pain on him by following when he keeps walking.

"Hermione." He only barely remembers the familiarity he's supposed to use.

"What are you doing out this time of night? Trying to lose Slytherin some house points?" There is a teasing lilt to her voice and Draco has to turn away and press his eyes closed.

"Just going for a stroll. Need some air."

 _Air… need air!_

"Draco, wai—" Ever the clumsy witch, she stumbles, and he curses himself as his instincts rush to correct her, hand flying to the small of her back.

He curses the whole fucked-up situation.

She straightens and of course the color is once again staining her cheeks. He can make it out in the scant light of the flickering sconces.

 _Bad, Granger,_ he thinks. _Don't you understand I can't help myself when you do that? When you wet your lips? When you look at me with that dazed look on your face? Do you even know what I want to do?_

She smiles, and it's the first time she has since that cunt Pansy insulted her.

Granger flicks her hair over her shoulder and he imagines running his fingers through the silky tresses. The thought alone makes his cock harden.

Granger makes him want to do things he knows he shouldn't. She makes him want things he knows he can't have. He thinks of finally letting go, as if he were actually free to make such a choice.

He flashes her his most practiced smile in the hope that she doesn't sense anything amiss. "Rounds are over, right?"

She nods.

"I'll walk you back to your Common Room." He's molded his face back to careful blankness.

"You're not supposed to know where it is!" When she jabs him playfully in the arm, a jolt of desire sears through him, fracturing his concentration.

"Potter isn't the only one with tricks," he manages to grit out.

When they arrive all too soon—yet not soon enough—she bids him goodnight and kisses him chastely on the lips.

His whisky-adled brain tells him to throw her up against the nearest wall and make mad love to her, but he successfully rebuilds the walls of his mind and resists making that colossal mistake.

He isn't that much of a monster.

When she walks away, she's blushing again, and there's a mischievous glint in her eye.

 **~oOo*oOo~**

Hermione's foregone wearing her robes in favor of a simple off-the-shoulder long-sleeve blouse and blue jeans.

Her _tightest_ blue jeans.

She's let Lavender tame her hair, so the long curls are falling in smooth waves down her shoulders. There's gloss on her lips and mascara on her lashes.

They are small changes, but the effect is profound. She looks different and yes, maybe even _good_. Certainly better than before.

She is, of course, _not_ doing this because of what Parkinson said. Parkinson's words mean nothing.

This is for her own benefit. It's time to regain control of the situation. Others are having too much of an effect on her feelings and her relationship. Hermione has resolved to put an end to it.

Ginny bolts into the room calling her name and stops short when she sees her. Her brown eyes narrow.

"I offered to help Hermione get ready," Lavender tells the younger witch.

"How kind of you." But Ginny's response seems far from appreciative.

"What did you want, Ginny?" Hermione asks.

"Snape wants to see you."

"Oh." Hermione frowns, wondering what her DADA professor wants to talk to her about. They'd already sussed out rounds for the month. As far as she's concerned, their business is through. "Okay. Well, it'll have to wait until after."

Ginny doesn't even try to conceal her eye roll, and Hermione ignores her.

Together, the girls make their way from the dorms to the common room, the tension thick between them.

Ron and Harry are waiting by the stairs. Harry looks up first and, upon seeing her, promptly stumbles. His shock quickly transitions to irritation.

Ron's reaction is almost comical when he spots her. His eyes go wide, and an angry expression streaks across his face before he glances away, clenching his fists by his sides.

Hermione decides that now's not the time to comment on their rude, slightly odd behavior. "Shall we go then?"

Harry looks like he wants to argue, but then sighs, resigned. "Let's go."

 **~oOo*oOo~**

Hermione is feeling sour.

Some seductress she is.

Since launching her plan to make more of an effort—and in so doing _lure Draco_ —she's only succeeded in avoiding his attention altogether. Not only is he more distant than ever, but he _won't even look at her._

Hermione is fuming while Parkinson seems elated. She storms out of the dungeons after an hour of being ignored and then curses her bad luck when she runs into Snape.

"Professor." She gulps, looking up to meet his dark gaze.

"I get the distinct impression you're avoiding me."

She shakes her head, abruptly paralyzed with fear but unable to discern why.

"Miss Granger, if you please." Snape displays a vial with a flourish.

Hermione takes an involuntary step backwards under his piercing black eyes.

Something tickles at the back of her mind, and all she knows is that she _does not_ want to drink the contents of that vial.

 **~oOo*oOo~**

Draco's sure he's free, convinced his crass treatment has run her off. So he allows himself to finally relax.

He plops down on a sofa at the far corner of the common room, casting several well-practiced concealing spells before resting his head back against the cushions.

 _Salazar's rod!_ When she came in wearing _that_ , leaving practically nothing to the imagination, he hadn't know how he would survive.

He had suddenly been plagued with the rather difficult problem of needing to conceal the beginnings of a raging hard-on that had no intention of going away.

He doesn't need to ask what he's done to deserve this—he knows he's done plenty. But he's paralyzed with indecision as to what to do about it.

Granger always does that to him—making him second guess everything.

When he opens his eyes, he sees her standing in front of him and briefly wonders if he's gone mad. Surely she wouldn't return to him after his abhorrent behavior.

But no, she's really here, and this time there's no escaping a confrontation.

No cowardly way out.

She's changed her hair, he notes. He hadn't allowed himself close enough to notice before.

Her eyes too. They smolder at him under a thick fringe of lashes. He swallows down a groan as he tries not to get lost in her gaze.

"Draco," she croons, and his blood turns to molten lava racing through his veins. "I get the distinct impression you've been avoiding me." A small smile plays at her lips.

"I…" _Fuck_. No excuse comes to him. "I haven't been trying to avoid anyone," he lies.

He has to physically wrench his eyes away from her. _Damn bloody vixen_. A muscle clenches by his jaw. Where is the bloody cavalry now, to whisk her away from the evil snake?

He looks up just in time to see her climbing on his lap, straddling him, _fuck_ — she may as well be _mounting him._

Pleasure sweeps through his body at her touch and he panics.

"Granger, what the fuck?" He whips his head away, but she chases his lips.

"It's Granger now?"

"Hermione," he amends, screwing his eyes shut.

"That's better," she praises, and Draco has to remember to take in air or else he'll become a panting fool in front of the girl of his dreams. The girl forbidden to him— _even_ in his dreams.

"Kiss me, Draco."

He feels the whisper of her breath on his face and suddenly all he can think of is how badly he wants to taste her.

Taste every inch of her.

"I can't," he rasps out.

"Of course, you can."

She doesn't know what she's asking for, because he can't deliver the chaste kisses of a pretend boyfriend any longer.

"You don't understand." Draco works to hastily rebuild the walls she always seems to topple so effortlessly, because if he doesn't, he's about to spill something he's not supposed to say.

 _Granger, get away, Granger._

Don't leave me, Granger!

Come back, Granger.

Flee!

A battle rages inside his chest, made harder when she leans down to nip at his ear.

He gasps and his eyes fly open.

She meets his gaze boldly and Draco can't stop himself. He isn't a complete monster—at least not when it comes to her. "We _can't_ ," he says with a note of finality, "we can't because… you've been slipped a potion." He rushes on, the confession flooding from his mouth. "That's why you feel this way… the only reason. A shitty, warped revenge concocted by Pansy. Snape has been working on the antidote. I've been told—no, commanded—to play along. By the Headmaster, if you can believe that. So you see, it's all just pretend. I'm not really your boyfriend."

He thinks she'll rail on him, hit him again like she did in third year, maybe.

She doesn't. Instead, she surprises him.

"That doesn't look like pretend to me." Her eyes drop down to his arousal pressed achingly against her leg.

His vision goes blank for a moment before he regains his bearings. "Granger, are you listening to me? I said you've been _slipped a potion_."

"And are you also under the influence of a potion?"

"No. Pansy just wanted to embarrass me. Embarrass me in front of the Slytherins and Gryffindors. Retaliation for refusing her."

"You refused her?" She seems pleased.

"Uh…" He shifts, trying to pull away from her slightly, but she's having none of it. "Yes, I guess."

"And she chose me— _of all people_ —because of your hatred for me?"

Draco pales and works tirelessly to erect his walls. Damn the witch. When he's certain he can deliver the lie flawlessly, he finally answers. "Yes." He calls on all the training he's had with his Head of House. "That's right. So you see, I don't want this. And even if I did, you're on a bloody potion. _You_ don't want this."

"And if I wasn't?"

"Sorry?" His brain tries and fails to decipher the meaning of her question.

"If"—she seats herself on him more heavily, and he thinks he'll go mad—"if I wasn't on the potion…what then?"

He panics. "It doesn't matter because you _obviously are_." Her voluntary nearness is evidence enough.

"Besides, don't you get it?" He realizes this might hurt her but it will hurt less than if he were to take what she's offering. "It was all an act. The teachers gave me explicit instructions. There's nothing real here."

He's desperate now, and he realizes that sheer desperation may have leaked into his voice. "Run back to Potter and Weasley." He clenches her arms where they cage him and there's no way she's gaining any more leverage.

He cares too much to _use her_ when she's vulnerable.

"I see." Her eyes duck and he imagines they are filled with hurt, maybe even brimming with tears.

"Thanks for telling me the truth, at the very least." She retreats and so he relaxes infinitesimally.

He's convinced her, even though he selfishly wishes it had been harder than that.

She backs up more, preparing to dislodge herself from him completely and his muscles relax even as a war rages in his mind.

 _Leave, Granger._

Come back, Granger.

He can breathe easier even though he feels like the air has been sucked from the room. The feeling is a strange and conflicting one.

Ever the Slytherin, his mask falls back into place as he watches her prepare to leave him one last time, unable to tear his eyes from her even though he can't see her face still shielded by her hair.

She's probably going straight for Snape's office, if he has any guess. She's rational enough to fight the potion just long enough to get the antidote.

Then, before he can react, she advances.

She is back. This time she lowers herself completely and he's _not ready._

She wraps her arms and legs around him, she threads her fingers through his hair until her breath mingles with his.

He can't find air. His body rejoices even as his mind is in free fall.

He slams up his walls.

She topples them.

"You might have told some truth, Draco, but _you're still a liar._ " Like a snake, she attacks and he can no longer resist.

Her lips slant over his and he's suddenly sure he's in heaven—wrapped up in everything Granger—and it's bliss. His mind goes blank.

 **~oOo*oOo~**

She loses herself in the taste of him.

It's what she's been craving—all she's wanted for days—and she won't let up now. Her tongue twirls with his— exploring, learning his flavor, committing it to memory. Hermione is a fiend for him.

He fights her, pulling away even as he nips at her lips.

But Hermione likes it. She follows him, crawling her way closer before remembering where they are.

They must not have been seen, tucked away in the dark corner like they are, or else they'd surely have been stopped by now.

Hermione doesn't want to risk it.

"Take me to your bed," she demands in a whisper.

He groans, but she pulls him up, letting him lead the way as her hands wander over his body, distracting him.

At one point he slams her up against the stairway and she lets him ravish her mouth.

A sharp gasp of longing issues from her lips. She needs this. She feeds on his passion.

They finally make it to his bed and then they are falling, and it's perfect.

She pulls him closer so she can feel his body against hers. He's solid and lean and she savors the comforting weight of him.

They roll and somehow her legs are on either side of his and she can _feel him_. He groans as she rolls his hips. The friction is delicious, decadent, delightful, and she wants—no, she _needs—more._

Pleasure lances through her like an angry spell sizzling through her chest, and her heart soars. She's a frenzy of nerves, tensed and primed in titillating anticipation.

When they break apart, they're both panting.

"Granger." Her name comes out gravelly, and somehow the use of her surname feels right. "You're driving me mad."

He looks wrecked. That perfect Pureblood facade he's known for is absolutely shredded and she's happy to have been the cause of it.

 _She_ did that to the haughty Slytherin. Her chest swells with pride. The knowledge causes hot, scorching need to spark down her spine.

She lowers her head slowly to take his lips again, and this time she knows what to expect. When their kiss deepens, she's prepared, but it's no less galvanizing.

She seeks it out, chasing it like she's chased him.

He kisses her back just as feral and she's wild with need.

Maddeningly, he's the one that halts them.

"We can't," he tells her mournfully, face contorted with desire.

She tries to fight but he flips them, pinning her hands by her head and holding her still. She likes the way he takes charge, but she won't stand for any more last-ditch efforts to do what he views as the right thing.

He's unyielding, so she arches her body up and melts against him.

"Granger," he hisses, his eyes screwed shut as if in pain.

Hermione likes the way he looks, but she wants to see him _break for her._

For once, she doesn't want to think or talk—just feel.

She leans up, whispering into his ear. "Don't you want me, Draco?"

She tries to sound vulnerable and it works. He falls upon her and peppers her neck with kisses.  
"Of course I do," he nearly growls against her skin, "but—"

She wrangles a hand free and wraps her hand around his arousal. His hooded eyes widen and his mouth falls slack as he bucks into her grip.

"Then I don't see a problem." And this time when he submits to her he doesn't hold back, showing her just how badly he wants her—again and again.

 **~oOo*oOo~**

Draco's appalled.

He sees the red stain on the sheets. He knows she was a virgin. He knows he's taken advantage of her.

Inexplicably, she's tracing the Mark on his forearm with her forefinger. He knows it's only thanks to the potion's effects that she hasn't cursed him and ran screaming for Potter.

He feels miserable and dejected. He can't even think about how perfect their night had been when he's _defiled her._

"How can you look so miserable now?" she asks, brows furrowed and cheeks pinched.

His jaw tightens. "I already explained," he bursts, and he hates that his anger towards himself slips through.

Instead of appearing hurt, she just smirks, awareness dawning on her face. "Is that all?" She ducks her lashes and then lifts them, as if she knows a secret. "You're upset because you think you've taken advantage of me."

"Obviously."

Her lips quirk and he catches the movement.

His eyes narrow. "Why are you so pleased?"

"Besides having just had the greatest night of my life?"

Draco thinks he's the one who's blushing, despite everything.

"I'm happy you seem to care so much."

He's baffled by her response and is about to argue, but she silences him.

"The truth is, I've already met with Snape. He administered the antidote to me, and I've been free of the potion's effects for several hours—certainly well before approaching you."

Draco opens his mouth and promptly closes it again.

His mind is reeling. His thoughts are a jumbled, convoluted mess. Nothing makes sense.

He's spiraling.

"It can't be," he hisses and rakes a hand through his hair. "It can't be because…" he trails off, his eyes snapping to her and then to her fingers touching his Mark. He gestures wildly. "You wouldn't be here… _you wouldn't stay._ "

A flurry of emotions cross his normally unreadable face, but chief among them is disbelief. "Hermione Granger _would never_ willingly be with me."

She snorts. "And Draco Malfoy would never willingly be with me, but here we are."

He stares at her and he can't tear his eyes away. Has she gone mental?

When she laughs, he accepts that perhaps she has.

"Maybe Parkinson slipping me that potion wasn't such a bad thing. Maybe she helped me see what was already there all along." Her eyes flick down to his Mark and her expression turns serious. "Something I might not have not found on my own."

The admission hangs between them and time is suspended.

"What?"

"I love you, Draco."

His vision blurs and the room tilts. Something clenches sharply in his chest, but when it releases, his countenance is lighter...brighter, somehow.

 _Hermione Granger. Golden Girl. Dream Girl. And she loves me._

 **~oOo*oOo~**

He holds his godfather's stare unflinchingly.

"Don't labor under the delusion for a single second that you can lie to me, boy," he sneers, beady eyes skewering Draco's very soul. "Shut away any hopes you have that you can _spy for her_ —become her glorified pet… that the Order stands a chance. It won't happen. A war is brewing, and it's one the Dark Lord _will win_. There's no mistaking it."

Draco's jaw clenches. Snape's words hardly douse the fire that storms inside his chest. If anything, they make Draco more determined.

Fierce protectiveness burns hotly in his eyes. "I will protect her," he vows, because there's no point denying the truth Snape implies. Draco knows what he's freely admitting—knows, but doesn't care. It doesn't matter, he has his plans—infiltrate the Death Eaters and become a spy for the Order, or, if it appears the Dark Lord is winning, grow to be such a powerful Death Eater that Voldemort will have no choice but to reward his most faithful knight.

Snape's gaze is calculating as the silence spans between them. "It's a dangerous game you play."

Draco senses a test, so he lets his mentor slip into his mind to see the strong sense of resolve and determination Draco feels.

"I don't care, I will protect her—no matter what happens or what I have to do."

Draco's _almost_ sure he detects fondness and pride.

Snape inclines his head ever so slightly. "Very well."

Another burden lifts.

A pair of honey brown eyes flash over Draco's mind. For the first time, a smile flicks across his face, and it's a real one.

 **~oOo*oOo~**


End file.
